


Heat Vision

by lears_daughter



Category: Supergirl (TV 2015), The Devil Wears Prada (2006)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Fusion, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-10
Updated: 2016-12-10
Packaged: 2018-09-07 13:48:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8803258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lears_daughter/pseuds/lears_daughter
Summary: DWP/Supergirl fusion. Andy Sachs’ real name is Andrea Zor-El. Miranda Priestly has a problem with her Supergirl costume. Canon through Paris and then it goes AU.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own The Devil Wears Prada or Supergirl.
> 
> Note: I play fast and loose with Supergirl here. Very little of the TV show is carried over into this fic.

“Emily!”

Andy Sachs and Emily Charlton engaged in a split-second silent argument.

_She means you._

_No, she means_ you.

_Good God, Andy—_

_Oh,_ fine.

Andy mustered her courage and headed into the lion’s den, slapping on her most earnest smile.

“Yes, Mir—”

“Finally,” Miranda said in a tone that made it clear Andy had once again disappointed her, probably by breathing. Nigel, beside her, wore the same tired frown that had become his default expression of late.

Miranda sniffed and returned her attention to the spread on her desk. “As I was saying,” she said to Nigel, “I think it might take Valentino himself to make something redeemable from this atrocity.”

Nigel hummed under his breath. “It would be a miracle on the level of loaves and fishes, but if anyone can do it…” He shrugged his agreement.

“Very well.” Miranda leveled a glacial gaze on Andy. “ _Emily_ , I have a small favor to ask. A job-keeping type of favor, one might say.”

Andy swallowed. _Please, not_ Harry Potter _again. Please, not—_

“Get me Supergirl.”

 _Shit_.

* * *

The _Runway_ office had not been a pleasant place to be in the two months since Paris Fashion Week. For one thing, Andy’s dramatic resignation followed by the really pathetic way she’d groveled to get her job back seemed to have demoted her in Miranda’s eyes from slightly-more-competent-than-Emily to slightly-less-competent-than-a-goldfish. For another, even the best makeup in the world couldn’t conceal the fact that Miranda had barely slept in weeks, which meant she was even more short-tempered than usual.

Every morning for the rest of the week after making her ridiculous request, Miranda would breeze into the office, toss her coat and purse in Andy's general direction, and bark, "Well?"

Andy, in turn, would offer a queasy grin and say, "I'm working on it, Miranda."

The first three days, this feeble response merited only a sniff of disgust. On Friday, Miranda's eyes narrowed. "Succeed before Monday or don't bother returning. _Emily_."

Andy waited until Miranda was out of sight to moan and drop her head on her desk with a thunk.

* * *

Andy Sachs, everyone would agree, was an Ohio girl through-and-through. Her wardrobe until very recently had screamed "Midwest JC Penney". She ate real food, befriended real people, and was generally agreed to be disgustingly nice.

This was all true. Andy Sachs had spent half of her life learning to hide in plain sight, to use her kindness and her intelligence—not atypical Earthly qualities—to hide the part of herself that was completely _other_.

Yes, Andy Sachs was an Ohio girl. But Andrea Zor-El, the woman who lived just beneath Andy's skin, was from somewhere else entirely.

* * *

Andy tugged at her suit one more time, regretting every ill-conceived stitch of it, before mustering a bright smile, ringing the doorbell, and hurriedly planting a fist on either hip in her signature pose.

There was a long, long pause. She could imagine an incredulous Miranda, alone since the twins were with their father for the weekend, wondering who would dare to disturb her at home on a Saturday night.

The door swung open and there she was, dressed to the nines instead of comfortably ensconced in pajamas like Andy would have been, staring at Andy in something like shock. Andy had seen that expression before, back at the tail end of the _Harry Potter_ incident. If past history was any indication, at least this stunt should be enough to earn her her name back.

"Supergirl," Miranda said with a calculating look that made Andy's hair itch. "This _is_ a surprise."

"Ms. Priestly." Andy pitched her voice a little deeper and firmer than usual. "I heard you wanted to speak with me."

Miranda raised an eyebrow. "I meant for you to come to the office, but I suppose this will do. Come in."

 _Come into my lair, said the spider to the fly_.

Andy followed Miranda through the foyer and up the stairs to a small study, trying not to think about what had happened the last time she'd ventured up to the second floor of Miranda's house.

"Scotch?" Miranda asked, pouring herself one.

Andy shook her head. "Alcohol doesn't affect me."

Miranda shuddered delicately. "How very, very sad for you." She took a sip, rolled it around in her mouth, swallowed, and let out a sigh of satisfaction that made Andy sweat.

"Ms. Priestly, why am I here?"

"It's Miranda," Miranda said, regarding Andy over her tumbler. "What should I call you?"

Andy blinked. "Um, Supergirl."

Miranda rolled her eyes. "I'm not calling you by that ridiculous title. You must have a name."

Only Miranda Priestly would assume she was entitled to Supergirl's secret identity for no reason whatsoever. Andy crossed her arms over her chest. "Miranda, I can't tell you—"

"Emily, then," Miranda said with a hint of that mean satisfaction that was her absolute worst trait. "Yes, you look like an Emily."

The gall of the woman! "Absolutely _not._ If you must, you can call me...Alura." It was Andy's biological mother's name, a name she associated with warmth and love and the wrenching agony of loss.

"Alura?" Miranda repeated, doubtful. "Fine," she said when Andy frowned. "As to why you're here...we need to discuss _that_." She waved her hand to encompass Andy's entire body.

Andy looked down at herself and back at the fashion maven. "We do?"

"We do," Miranda agreed. "You're Earth's first female superhero, Alura. You have a responsibility to womankind."

Andy's eyes narrowed. "I do, do I?"

"Oh yes. The responsibility _not_ to look like a cartoon character drawn by one of my pre-teen daughters."

Flustered, Andy tugged at her cape. "I don't—That is, why is this any of your—"

Miranda pursed her lips. "Red and blue? A giant 'S' on your chest? And that skirt..." She shook her head. "No, this won't do. It won't do at all. If you're to set an example for women the world over, you _will_ improve your wardrobe. Fortunately for you, I am here to help."

She set her tumbler on a coaster and pulled a leather-bound folder from her desk, using one finger to push it towards Andy. "Take a look."

Andy inched forward, half-expecting the folder to come to life and attack. Tentatively, she flipped it open. "Oh," she breathed.

Miranda hummed, pleased with Andy's reaction. "I'm not a designer myself, of course, but I know all of the great designers in the world. They were eager to share their suggestions for Supergirl's ideal costume."

Andy flipped through the folder's contents, her heart pounding as she took in sketch after sketch of herself in the most beautiful outfits imaginable. There was a Prada sketch of a costume that looked almost like a pantsuit, not dissimilar from the skintight uniforms of Krypton's soldiers. There was a Dolce and Gabbana sketch of a long, flowing costume that made Supergirl look like some kind of Cinderella. Not very practical for flying. Sketch after sketch after sketch.

The last was a Valentino, Andy's favorite designer. Her breath caught as she took in the smooth lines of his sketch, not so different from her own costume except that the lines were more elegant, the skirt less like something a cheerleader would wear, the colors more subtle but no less proud. She traced her finger lightly over the page, careful not to smudge it.

"Hmm, yes, Valentino has always had an impeccable eye for the female figure," Miranda said, leaning over Andy's shoulder. Her proximity made Andy's heart do ridiculous things. "And a figure like _yours_ , of course, any designer would salivate over." Her hand hovered near Andy's bicep as if tempted to give it a squeeze.

If Andy didn't put some distance between them, she was going to do something she'd regret tomorrow. With a cough, she scuttled around the desk so that Miranda would have to crawl across the imposing mahogany to get to her.

"He left off my symbol," she pointed out.

Miranda nodded impatiently. "They all did. You don't need an ostentatious 'S' on your chest to remind the world that you are 'super', Alura."

On this matter, Andy would not be budged. "It isn't an 'S'. It's the crest of my house. It stands for everyone who—everyone I left behind. Back on Krypton. I won't give it up."

A strange, unfamiliar softness filled Miranda's eyes. Andy wanted to look away but forced herself to stand her ground. "Fine," Miranda said, with exasperation so exaggerated it had to be faked. "We'll find a way to keep the not-an-S."

Andy smiled warmly. "Thank you, Miranda."

Miranda cleared her throat. "Yes, well, an outfit only works if you're comfortable in it." She clapped her hands together briskly. "This has been very productive. I'll tell Valentino you approve of his design. I've been in contact with certain acquaintances in the military who owe me favors, and they've assured me they will provide my chosen designer with samples of various materials that may be suitable for your purposes. Once Valentino puts something together, I'll have Andrea contact you again to schedule a fitting." She frowned. "How did she manage to get in touch with you, anyway? I was under the impression mine was a rather impossible request."

 _Then why did you ask me to do it?_ Andy wanted to demand. Instead, she wracked her brain for a reasonable explanation. _What would Emily have done?_

"She dangled herself off a balcony and screamed bloody murder until I came to her rescue," Andy said.

Miranda's nostrils flared. "She _what?_ That _stupid_ girl!"

Oh, that was so unfair. "She was under the impression she'd be fired if she didn't get my attention. Was she wrong?" Andy stared at her boss, daring her to lie. If she did, this would be the end of Miranda Priestly's association with Supergirl. Maybe the end of her association with Andy Sachs, too.

Miranda scowled as if this conversation were the least convenient thing in the world. " _No_. Oh, don't look at me like that. You've known the girl for five minutes. I've known her for almost a year. She is _infuriating_."

Andy needed to change the subject or she'd end up setting Miranda's office on fire with a burst of outraged heat vision. "Why are you doing this?" she asked. "Helping me? It can't just be because my image offends you."

Miranda waved her hand. "Oh, it isn't all out of the goodness of my heart. I'll expect you to do a photo shoot for us eventually. It's a crime that there are no high-resolution pictures of those shoulders."

She eyed said shoulders as if they were steaks from Smith and Wollensky. Andy fought the urge to hunch.

"As for the other reason...I was on Flight 683, did you know that?" Even under her makeup, Miranda looked a little pale mentioning it. Andy knew she was thinking back to that fateful flight from Paris two months ago, to those harrowing twenty minutes after the engine failed, when it looked as if the plane would go down over the ocean.

"Yes."

Miranda nodded as if that explained everything. Maybe it did. "Well."

Andy waited, dreading the question that was sure to come next. _Why did you save_ that _plane? Why was that the day you chose to reveal yourself to the world?_

But Miranda didn't ask. "That's all I have for you tonight, Alura. Unless there's anything else...?"

"No." Andy shook her head. Then, feeling mischievous, "That's all."

With a burst of super speed, she hurried away before Miranda's eyes finished widening.

* * *

The following Monday, Miranda's coat and purse landed on Emily's desk for the first time since Paris. "Andrea, get me Patrick." Miranda swept into her office without waiting for a response.

"Andrea Sachs, don't tell me you actually got _Supergirl_ ," Emily hissed as Andy dialed cheerfully.

"I have Patrick," Andy called out before putting down the phone. She grinned in relief. "I think she's finally forgiven me for Paris."

"She should have crucified you for that stunt. How do you manage to get away with everything?"

"I don't know. I guess I do really good apologies." Andy looked significantly at Emily's blouse, one of the many pieces she'd brought back for her fellow assistant after that disastrous fashion week.

"Hmph."

"Andrea!"

Andy beamed. Who'd have thought she'd ever be so relieved to hear Miranda bellow her name?

In her office, Miranda was scrutinizing a familiar sketch on her desk. Looking at it gave Andy a tingle of dangerous excitement. Miranda had taken an interest in Andy's wardrobe before, of course, but only in the form of those assessing gazes that made Andy feel either an inch or ten feet tall depending on the curve of Miranda's lips at the time. For her to be spending so much time and energy on Supergirl's image...that was something else altogether.

"She looks like you, a little," Miranda murmured, tilting her head as if to consider the sketch in a different light.

Andy laughed nervously. "Oh, no. I don't think so." Supergirl wasn't anywhere near a size six, after all. Andy wore padding to hide her alien musculature. Between that and the terrible outfits she used to wear, she'd always been well-disguised.

 _You have to blend in_ , her foster father liked to say. _Be ordinary so no one suspects you are extraordinary._

"Since you appear to have made an impression on Supergirl through your ingenious technique of 'screaming bloody murder', you will remain my main point of contact with her," Miranda went on as if Andy hadn’t spoken. "Valentino requires a copy of Supergirl's measurements. You will obtain them."

"Um, okay. Sure."

"Andrea."

Andy swallowed at the older woman's tone. "Yes, Miranda?"

"There will be no _dangling from balconies_ in the future. Do you understand me?"

"Yes, Miranda."

"Good. Supergirl has better things to do than save you from your own stupidity. That's all."

* * *

Being Supergirl was not easy when one had a 14-hour-a-day job with a demanding boss known for firing people who dared to leave their desks to get a Band-Aid after slicing open an artery. Andy made good use of her 15-minute lunch break every day to cruise over the city while inhaling ten hot dogs and looking for people in need of help. After Miranda went home, Andy would make another pass over the city before returning for the Book. Those routines weren't so bad. The problem was when emergencies came up during the day.

"Emily, can you watch the phones for a sec?"

"No! Why?"

"I forgot to get Miranda's afternoon coffee."

"What afternoon coffee?"

"The one she wants in the afternoon."

"Andy—"

"Look, I'll be right back. Come on, Em."

"Oh, fine. Make it snappy."

Twenty minutes later:

"Good _God_ , Andy, have you taken up smoking? You smell like a chimney!"

* * *

Andy knocked at the edge of Miranda's door.

"What?"

Andy hurried across the room to drop a sheet of paper on Miranda's desk. "Uh, Supergirl's measurements."

Miranda’s eyebrows rose. "Really." She looked down at the sheet. Andy's super hearing picked up the sudden increase in Miranda's heart rate as she read the numbers. " _Really_ ," she said again, this time in a purr.

"Eep," Andy said.

"That's all."

* * *

 Andy closed her eyes as she soared effortlessly over the city, basking in the rush of air against her face. She relaxed her rigid control over her super hearing and allowed the noise of New York to bombard her. The endless honking of cabs; the musicals in Times Square; the thousands of conversations, happy, sad, loving, hateful, brusque, slow. All those lives unfolding beneath her in an endless tapestry of humanity.

Andy loved her powers. She wondered how she'd managed to go so many years without using them.

Instinctively, she narrowed her hearing in on a familiar voice.

"—don't care about your excuses. I want to know _where my children are_." Miranda sounded angry. Worse, she sounded afraid.

Andy jolted out of her trance. The twins were missing? Heart pounding, she thought back to that awful day they'd lured her upstairs, trying to remember their voices. Once she had them firmly in her mind, she opened her hearing again, searching.

"— _so_ much trouble, Caroline."

"Like she cares. She didn't even know we were supposed to go to that stupid sleepover. She doesn't even know we hate Amanda."

"Mom cares. She's just so busy."

"Yeah, busy paying attention to everything except us."

Andy sighed. Miranda's twins may have been monsters, but she understood their pain. Following the sound of their voices, she zoomed to their location. They were in Central Park, walking along one of the more secluded paths not too far from their house. What they hadn’t noticed was the man lurking behind a bush a little way down the path.

Almost dizzy at the thought of what might have happened if she hadn’t come, Andy swiftly knocked the man out and delivered him to the nearest police station with a note on his chest that said, "Central Park creeper, please jail, XOXO". She made it back to the twins less than a minute later.

"Hey there!" she said brightly, dropping out of the sky to land in front of them with her hands on her hips.

Cassidy screamed.

Caroline's mouth fell open. "You're—you're—"

"Supergirl," she said brightly. "And you're Caroline and Cassidy, right? Miranda Priestly's kids?"

"How do you know what?" Caroline demanded. "Are you some kind of predator or something?"

Andy sputtered. "A predator? What? No! I mean, that's a good question and you should totally ask random people that if they accost you or something, but no. I'm a friend of your mom's."

"Seriously?" Cassidy blurted.

"Seriously. Hey, I bet she’s really worried about you. I think I should walk you guys home. What do you think?"

"Or you could fly us there," Caroline said with a crafty expression that was all Miranda.

Andy laughed nervously at the terrifying mental image of the twins leaping out of her arms mid-flight just to get their mom to eviscerate her. "No, no, no, I think walking would be good. Come on."

She didn't take them by the hand, because that felt awkward, but she ushered them forward and kept a wary eye on them all the way back to the townhouse. This time, when she rang the doorbell the door flew open without hesitation. Miranda's hair and makeup were as perfect as ever, but there was a wildness to her eyes that Andy had never seen before. She saw Andy first, and frowned, then looked down and sucked in a breath.

"Caroline. Cassidy. Where have you _been_?"

"I ran into these ladies on their way home and wanted to make sure they got here safely," Andy said, practically shoving the girls up the stairs and into their mother's arms.

"She refused to fly us," Caroline pouted, then squeaked when Miranda squeezed her tighter.

"I should think not," Miranda said, stroking Cassidy’s hair frantically as if searching for skull fractures. "Flying is for adults, or girls who didn't lie to me about attending a birthday party."

"’Lie’ is such a strong word—" Andy said, though why she felt the need to argue on the girls' behalf she couldn't say.

Miranda glared at her. Andy bit her tongue. The glare softened. "Thank you for your help, Supergirl. The safety of my girls means everything to me."

Andy's heart flip-flopped. A thank you from Miranda was about as rare as a manatee in the Elias-Clarke building.  "It was nothing," she stammered. "I'm sure they would have been fine without my help." It wasn't totally a lie, she told herself. That creeper might have left them alone.

"Hm. To bed, girls," Miranda said, pushing them gently toward the stairs. "We'll discuss your punishment in the morning. Supergirl, can I interest you in a drink? No, you don't drink, I remember." Miranda raked her gaze up and down Andy's body, which suddenly felt far too exposed in her tight suit. "Dessert, perhaps? You look like you could use a good meal."

Oh, _that_ was rich. "I couldn't possibly—" Andy's stomach growled. Loudly. It was a super growl, apparently a heretofore undiscovered, humiliating super power.

Miranda smirked. "I insist."

Dessert turned out to be a sugar-free, fat-free, taste-free slice of sadness. Still, Andy demolished it with a big grin on her face because _Miranda gave her cake_. "This is terrible!" she said with enthusiasm, waving her fork.

"Most of us have to keep an eye on our figures," Miranda said sourly. "Have another slice."

"My powers use up a ton of energy," Andy explained, cutting another slice with gusto. "I have to eat like twenty donuts a day or I start feeling faint."

Miranda massaged her temples. "I see. We certainly won't be putting that tidbit into the Supergirl exposé. You'd earn the instant hatred of every woman on Earth."

Andy shrugged. "There are downsides to being an alien, too. Things that outweigh a good metabolism."

"Like what?"

_Like watching your home planet explode, killing everyone you've ever known._

Andy fought to keep her smile from slipping. "Like breaking your alarm clock every morning because you don't know your own strength. Or being unable to sleep because you can’t shut out the sounds of all the suffering in the city."

"Oh." Miranda blinked. Andy looked away, unable to bear the pity in the older woman's eyes. "Yes. But on the other hand, you've probably eaten more than a handful of French fries in the past decade."

Andy laughed and gratefully went with the change of subject. "Miranda Priestly, a French fry or five wouldn't kill you. Your gorgeous physique would survive."

Miranda raised an eyebrow. "Gorgeous?"

Andy froze. "It's a, uh, figure of speech."

"No, it isn't."

Andy gulped. "No, it isn't." A distant cry for help sent a jolt through her. "I'm sorry, I have to go."

Was that disappointment in Miranda's face? "If it's about what I said, I was only teasing."

"It isn't," Andy said, and watched in astonishment as her own hand reached out to pat Miranda's. She yanked it back before her boss could take her head off, though her fingers tingled from that moment of contact with the other woman’s perfect skin. "Someone's in trouble. I'm sorry."

"Don't ever apologize for being extraordinary," Miranda told her. "Thank you again for bringing my girls home. I am in your debt."

Andy shook her head. "No, you don't owe me—"

"Another piece of advice: don't ever turn down a favor from someone in power, silly girl," Miranda said fondly. "Now, go."

Andy went.

* * *

“Emily, make a reservation for two at Tao for right now, move my two o’clock to four o’clock, cancel my four o’clock, reschedule dinner with Donatella to tomorrow, and for God’s sake don’t forget to pick up that hat that went with that outfit I loved that one time. Andrea, _come_.”

Emily and Andy exchanged a wide-eyed glance as they leapt to obey. Andy grabbed her coat and purse and caught up to Miranda just as the other woman stepped into the elevator.

“I don’t have all day. Get in,” Miranda ordered when she saw Andy preparing to wait for the next one.

Reluctantly, Andy stepped inside, careful to keep more than a foot between them. Being in a closed space with Miranda Priestly wasn’t good for her blood pressure. It would be so easy to hit the emergency stop button, blast the camera with her heat vision, push Miranda against the wall, and—

“What’s wrong with you?” Miranda demanded. “You’re flushed.”

“Oh, uh, I think my jacket is too warm.” Andy fanned herself and looked everywhere but at her boss.

Thankfully, the elevator ride was short. Miranda swept out of the building and into the waiting car. Andy scurried after her, almost got nailed by a speeding taxi, and slid into the other seat.

“Tao,” Miranda told Roy, who bobbed his head and pulled into traffic.

One of the cardinal rules of Miranda duty was not to ask questions. That said, Andy had no idea what was happening right now. “I, uh, didn’t see a lunch meeting on the schedule,” she ventured.

Miranda tilted her sunglasses down her nose far enough to glare at her. “It wasn’t on the schedule.”

“Oh, right. So, I’ll just, um, wait outside for you. Unless you need me to go get something while you eat?”

“It will be difficult for you to consume your meal from outside the restaurant.” Miranda stared at Andy until she got it.

 _Oh_. “Oh!” Andy was Miranda’s lunch meeting? “Wow. I mean, yeah, okay.”

Miranda scoffed, pushed her glasses back up her nose, and ignored Andy for the remainder of the short drive.

The hostess at Tao nearly tripped over her own feet at the sight of Miranda Priestly stalking in like a lioness with its eye on a wounded gazelle. Andy supposed if she continued the  _Lion King_ metaphor then that made Andy Zazu.

“Right this way, Ms. Priestly,” the hostess said, and shoved a hapless waiter out of her path in her haste to show Miranda into the seating area.

They got the best table in the house, of course, on the second floor overlooking the restaurant’s famous giant Buddha. Andy looked over the menu and gawked at the outrageous price of fried rice.

“Two house martinis,” Miranda ordered without deigning to glance at the hovering waitress. “Andrea, the steak here is fabulous.”

 _The steak here costs more than my rent_ , Andy thought. “I’m not that hungry,” she lied. “I think I might just get a scallop.” The à la carte scallops were only $6 a piece.

Miranda massaged her forehead. “I am not unfamiliar with the plight of the working class woman. I would not take you to a venue like this and expect you to pay, Andrea. Understand?”

Andy smiled tightly. “Yes, Miranda.”

“Good. As I said, the steak here is excellent.”

When the waitress returned with the drinks, Andy obediently ordered the steak along with a tempura appetizer.

“What would you like for your side, Ms. Priestly?” the waitress asked when Miranda placed her own steak order.

Miranda scowled. “It comes with French fries, does it not?”

Andrea’s eyes went wide. Miranda couldn’t mean what Andy thought she meant. Could she?

The poor waitress paled. “Well, yes, but—”

“Did I ask to substitute a different side?”

“No, but—”

“That’s all.” Miranda shooed the woman away.

Andy sipped her martini, resisting the urge to make a face at the pungent taste. Tasting alcohol without being able to enjoy the pleasant effects was the worst of both worlds. She wondered why she was here but knew better than to ask. Miranda would either make her reasoning clear eventually, or not.

“Supergirl paid a visit to my house last night,” Miranda said, swirling her finger around the rim of her glass. “Did you know that?”

“Um, no.”

“She really is something special. Such kindness...Well, I suppose a person would need to be from another planet to have such a quality.”

Andy felt her cheeks heat. “Mmhmm,” she mumbled, taking another swig of her martini and wishing she were anywhere else. Listening to Miranda sing her praises made her deeply uncomfortable, mostly because it tempted her to hope for something that could never, ever happen.

“Although, you’re rather kind yourself, aren’t you?” Miranda mused.

“Oh, no,” Andy said quickly. “I’m not kind. I’m, um, mean.” She cringed at her own words, wishing the floor would open up and swallow her.

“I think not. You have a capacity for ruthlessness, as we’ve discussed previously—” oh _God_ , she was talking about Paris “—but a mean person would not have given Emily her clothes from Fashion Week. A mean person would not have tried to warn me about Irv’s attempted coup. A mean person would not have offered me comfort, that night in Paris.”

Andy took another gulp to quench her suddenly dry throat. “Miranda…”

“I’ve always wondered, you know,” Miranda said, gazing down at the Buddha without really seeing it. “Why you came crawling back after everything. After you walked away so proudly.”

Andy’s heart pounded in her ears. She remembered being at a bar in Manhattan, moping with Doug after coming home from Paris a day early. She remembered seeing the news report that Flight 683—the flight she’d originally been booked on, the flight she’d booked for Miranda—had suffered engine failure. Pure terror had driven her halfway across the ocean, with no thought in her mind except _I can’t let her die_.

Andy knew that she should lie. The truth was too dangerous. But she didn’t want to lie anymore. “You almost died,” she said thickly. “And I realized if I left things as they were that I might never see you again. I couldn’t bear that.”

Miranda looked at her then, and for the first time in a long time Andy couldn’t figure out what she was thinking. Would she push Andy further? Force her to admit her feelings?

“You’ve spent some time with Supergirl,” Miranda said. The abrupt subject change made Andy blink. “What have you two talked about?”

 _Our shared attraction to Miranda Priestly_. Andy bit her tongue, hard. “Just business. The things you wanted me to talk to her about.”

The waitress approached the table like a rabbit approaching a fox’s den, set their appetizers in front of them, and fled as if the hounds of hell were at her heels.

“She recently did me a tremendous favor,” Miranda said. “What has she told you about herself? I wish to know more about her.”

Andy fumbled with her chopsticks to shove a piece of tempura broccoli in her mouth, buying time as she tried to figure out how much to share. The more Miranda knew about Supergirl, the more likely it was she’d figure out her secret identity. Andy was trying to remember why that would be a bad thing.

“She said, um, that she really loves the costume you’re having made for her. She seemed, uh, surprised that you’d taken such an interest in her. She thought you were very...impressive.”

Miranda seemed pleased. “Ask her to come by the townhouse tonight.”

Andy had plans with Lily tonight to try to repair their friendship. Cancelling to hang out with Miranda would probably put an end to that plan pretty quickly. “I’m not sure tonight will work for her. Tomorrow?”

“You have Supergirl’s schedule memorized? Am I sharing my assistant these days?”

Andy laughed nervously. “She let me know a couple of days she’d be busy. In case you wanted to see her again.” Yeah, _that_ sounded convincing.

The arrival of their steaks forestalled whatever Miranda was going to say next. The other woman’s nostrils flared as she stared down at her French fries like they were the best thing she’d ever seen. Her fingers trembled as she reached for one, picked it up, and swiped it gracefully through the ketchup. Her hooded gaze met Andy’s.

“Not. A. Word. To. Anyone.”

Andy mimed sealing her lips. She watched as Miranda’s red, red lips wrapped around the fry with such obvious pleasure it should have been a crime. Andy downed her martini in a futile effort to quench the heat that pooled in her stomach. She wanted to be that fry.

Miranda was right about the steak. It was fabulous.

* * *

The next evening, Andy had every intention of entering through the front door, as usual, but when she saw Miranda standing on the roof of the townhouse there was no force on Earth that could have stopped her from coming in to gently land beside her.

“It’s a lovely night,” Miranda said, gazing up at the smog-covered stars.

“Yes,” Andy said, gazing at Miranda.

“Tell me something about yourself, Alura. I know so little. You play your cards very close to the vest with the press.”

Andy leaned against the railing. “That’s because I don’t know what to say. How much it’s safe to share. I never planned to reveal myself to the world.”

“Why not?”

She shrugged. “I always thought it was too dangerous. Knowing so many people would hate me, or fear me, for being alien.”

Miranda’s hand settled on top of hers. “Take it from someone who knows,” she said wryly. “A little jealous hatred never hurt anyone.”

Andy decided not to mention the shady black ops government organization that had tried to kidnap her the week before or Lex Luthor over in Metropolis who’d recently been gathering suspicious quantities of kryptonite. Instead, she focused on the perfect sensation of Miranda’s palm against her skin.

“My bedroom on Krypton had a balcony,” she said. “When I was a little girl, I liked to look out and imagine myself traveling amongst the stars, meeting all of the strange and interesting people out there. I wanted to get to know them. To write about them.”

She’d never told anyone about that. It wasn’t as if there were anyone on Earth she could share her secrets with, after all. Her friends didn’t know who she truly was, and her foster parents were much too concerned with protecting Andy from outside forces to worry much about the deep emotional scars that had never really begun to heal.

Miranda was no longer watching the stars. Instead, she was looking at Andy like she was something special and precious.

 _Because she’s looking at Supergirl_ , Andy reminded herself firmly. _Not Andy Sachs._

“Thank you,” Miranda said softly. She rubbed her thumb over the back of Andy’s hand before pulling away. She cleared her throat. “Come inside. I have something for you.”

Andy followed her down the stairs and into a room she’d never been inside before. It looked to be a guest bedroom, with ornate furniture and the kind of wall art she’d expect to see in a really snobby hotel. Dominating the center of the floor, and making it quite clear this night wasn’t turning into a bizarre booty call, was a mannequin. And on the mannequin was the most fantastic superhero costume Andy could imagine.

“Is this for me?” she gasped, reaching out but not quite daring to touch.

“No,” Miranda drawled. “It’s for Batman.”

Valentino’s masterpiece was even better in real life than it had been in sketch form. Before she could second guess herself, Andy super sped out of her old costume, which probably belonged in a trash heap somewhere, and into the new one.

The material felt silky against her skin, but didn’t tear when she gave it a hard tug. It clung to her, emphasizing her muscles without making her look like some sort of female bodybuilder. The colors were still red and blue, but they were softer, more enticing. The cape wrapped around her broad shoulders like a hug. The skirt wouldn’t have been out of place on the red carpet at the Academy Awards.

She smoothed her hand down one sleeve, grinning like an idiot. “Miranda, it’s wonderful.”

Miranda was a little dazed by how quickly Andy had changed, but she recovered herself quickly and carefully scrutinized Andy from head to toe and back again. She nodded twice. Then she smiled. “Valentino outdid himself. But something is missing.” She reached into her pocket and pulled out a long, narrow jewelry box. She opened it.

Andy’s lips formed a silent “O”. There, nestled in the box, was a beautiful silver pendant in the shape of her house crest, lined with…were those real diamonds and sapphires?

Since Andy was too stunned to move, Miranda seized the initiative. She plucked the pendant out of the case, tossed the case onto the bed, and glided around Andy’s frozen form. Expertly, she strung the necklace around Andy’s throat and latched it.

Andy touched the pendant gingerly, then more firmly, pressing it against her clavicle, just above and to the right of her pounding heart.

“Miranda,” she said helplessly, turning to face the other woman. “Why?”

“You told me a secret about yourself,” Miranda breathed. “Now let me tell you one about myself. I am in love with my assistant.”

Andy had half a second to despairingly think, _She’s in love with Emily?_ Then Miranda leaned in and kissed her.

* * *

“Andrea.”

Andy knew her cheeks were bright red as she hurried into Miranda’s office. _Don’t think about the kiss, don’t think about the kiss, oh, god, I’m thinking about the kiss._

The other woman did not look like someone who’d been ditched by a terrified and horny superhero the night before after a prolonged and barely PG-13 make out session. She was stunning in a black Donna Karan blouse that showed off yards of tempting skin. She leaned back in her chair, crossing her legs at the knee, slender calves flexing. With effort, Andy dragged her gaze up to Miranda’s face. She was smirking.

_Uh-oh._

“Take dictation,” Miranda said. “Dear Tom—that’s Tom in HR, Andrea, make sure you look up his last name; it’s Jones, or Smith, or something—I regret to inform you that my time at _Runway_ has come to an end. Although I have enjoyed my tenure here, I have decided to seek new opportunities. My last day with Elias-Clarke will be March 13th.”

Andy made it halfway through scribbling the letter on her notepad before the meaning of Miranda’s words hit her. Her mouth fell open. “You’re leaving _Runway_?” That was like the Pope resigning from the Catholic Church.

Miranda hummed. “You’re not writing,” she said.

Swallowing the lump in her throat, Andy quickly scrawled the rest.

“Where was I? Oh, yes, my last day with Elias-Clarke will be March 13th. Sincerely, Andrea Sachs.”

Andy dropped her pen. “What?”

“Were my words somehow difficult to comprehend?”

“Are you—are you firing me?” Andy collapsed into the visitor’s chair, but had to consciously let go of the arms when she felt the wood creak under her grip.

Miranda looked at her for a long, long moment. Then she sighed, stood, crossed the room, and closed the door. On her way back, she set her hand on Andy’s shoulder for the briefest of moments. She took a seat behind her desk, opened the drawer, pulled out a single sheet of paper, and offered it to Andy.

Andy took it in trembling hands. The letter was written on Miranda’s personal letterhead and contained three simple lines of text:

_To Whom It May Concern,_

_Hire Andrea Sachs._

_-Miranda Priestly_

“That’s your letter of reference for any job you wish to apply to,” Miranda said. “I am very confident you will find something suitable in the next two weeks.”

“But I don’t want to quit,” Andy stammered. She put down the letter as if it were toxic. “I like my job.” _I like seeing you all day, every day._

Miranda studied her with the same kind of careful attention she would give to a blouse destined to go on the cover of the magazine. “No, you don’t,” she said finally. “You’ve convinced yourself that you do, but the truth is, by the time we went to Paris you’d already outgrown this position.”

Before Andy could wonder if that was another fat joke, Miranda went on: “You came to _Runway_ because you wanted to be a writer, Andrea. Fetching me coffee may be comfortable, and it may be an excellent excuse to see my ‘gorgeous physique’ every day, but you have far too much talent and drive for me to continue to hold you back in good conscience. You also need a job that provides you with more flexibility in case of any emergencies that might arise.”

Miranda picked up the letter of reference and glared at it as if she hated it. Her lips pursed in displeasure as she pushed it back in Andy’s direction. “You were meant to be a writer, Andrea. So go write. That’s _all_.”

* * *

It took Andy less than a day to identify six open positions she might, just maybe, be qualified to fill. None of these publications would have given her a second glance a year ago. Now, every single one offered her an interview within hours of receiving her résumé. By the time her two weeks were up, she’d accepted an offer to write an article on spec for the _New Yorker_. Even Miranda’s letter couldn’t guarantee the article would be published, but she thought she just might be capable of composing something that deserved to be in print. Miranda had helped Andy get her foot in the door. It would be up to Andy to walk through.

Andy’s last day at _Runway_ was depressingly anti-climactic. Emily called her several unflattering names, insulted her figure, then pulled her into a hug and burst into tears. Nigel offered to take her for drinks, but she begged for a rain check. Tom from HR came to collect her phone and the obscene amount of clothing she’d borrowed from the Closet over the past year. And that was that.

Once all of her goodbyes had been said save one, Andy poked her head into Miranda’s office. Miranda was studying the photos from the previous week’s shoot in New Orleans. There was a little wrinkle between her eyebrows. She wore the reading glasses she despised. She was beautiful.

Andy didn’t want to ruin the moment, so she stayed like that, just watching, knowing adoration was written all across her face, until Miranda looked up and saw her.

“Do you have plans tonight?” Andy asked, which was not what she’d intended to say at all. _Thanks for everything_ and _goodbye_ were the words she’d carefully scripted the night before.

Miranda smiled. Her eyes locked with Andy's, she called out, “Emily, cancel dinner with Irv, drinks with Lagerfeld, and those other drinks with Donatella.” Then, in a quiet, sweet voice, she said, “No, Andrea. No plans.”

Andy felt her face stretch in a slow, predatory grin. “Good.”

* * *

Andy forced herself to take her time preparing for the evening. She went home and changed into one of the few outfits she still owned that she didn’t think would offend Miranda overly much. She ate a pizza, just to settle her nerves. She changed into her Supergirl costume, stopped three muggings, rescued a cat in a tree, and helped an elderly man carry his groceries up three flights of stairs. Then she went home and changed again. She did not add her size six padding.

It was just after eight by the time she reached the townhouse. She took deep, steadying breaths as she climbed the stairs. She’d been here many times before, of course. But this was the first time she’d done so as herself and not as Supergirl or Second Assistant Andy Sachs.

She rang the doorbell. A moment later, Miranda was standing there, with such naked hope in her eyes that Andy’s nerves immediately vanished. Miranda looked down and saw the lovely pendant hanging in plain sight from Andy’s neck.

“Andrea,” Miranda breathed, and kissed her, and drew her inside, and shut the door.

* * *

Later…

Much later…

Much, _much_ later, Andy and Miranda collapsed onto Miranda’s bed, panting, sweaty, limbs entwined, naked, sated only for the moment. Andy rested her head on Miranda’s chest, closing her eyes in bliss as Miranda stroked her hair.

 _I love you_ , she thought, but didn’t yet dare say. Instead, she mouthed the words against Miranda’s skin, hoping the message might convey itself through osmosis.

“You risked everything, exposing yourself to save my plane,” Miranda murmured. “Why?”

The question that had so terrified Andy before wasn't so frightening now. Still, the answer was easy to think; more difficult to speak. She kissed Miranda's jaw. “Because you’re the only person on Earth who says my name the way it’s meant to be pronounced. The way it was pronounced on my planet, by the people who loved me.”

They lay in silence for a while. Andy didn’t need super powers to hear the steady, reassuring beat of Miranda’s heart.

“Alura?” Miranda asked eventually.

“My mother.”

“You must miss her very much.”

Andy idly trailed her finger across Miranda’s rib cage. “I always will. There’ll always be a part of me that’s an orphan. The little girl who lost a whole planet. The last of my kind. But when I’m with you, Miranda, I don’t feel alone.” _I love you. I love you._

Miranda scooted down the bed until they were eye to eye. “I feel the same,” she said, and leaned in for a gentle, passionate, lingering, all-consuming kiss that eliminated the need for words.


End file.
